I know I shouldn't intervene

Noah is smart. Scary smart. He  had four Thomas the Tank Engine puzzles of 24 pieces each. He mixed them all together, so 96 pieces were mingling in a heap on the floor. Ten minutes later I returned to the room to find 4 completed Thomas puzzles. It's unnerving.

If you want Noah to sound extra wise, you ask him about trains, dinosaurs, or Noah's Ark. He is a little dino-encyclopedia.

When moms in this little Texas town get tired of sacrificing their children to the devouring wind, they take them to the mall. At the food court (which has three choices: Chinese, pizza, or frozen yogurt) there is a little Texas themed play area. There is a slide that looks like a barrel, a little tower of plastic hay bales, and a giant plastic bull kids can climb on. My kids love it. I took them there when we first moved here, before the truck containing their furniture, toys, books, and blankies arrived (it was a dark time in our little world). They played for almost an hour on these three little structures.

I took them back today, and several other kids were frolicking in the plastic rodeo as well. One was a blond girl, about five years old, who did nothing but growl, jump off a foot tall plastic horseshoe and flap her arms for fifteen minutes. It was the kid that makes you wonder.

Noah, the dino-king, is not to be out-growled. The girl was laying under the slide poking her head out to roar at anyone who passed by. The other kids ignored her, or took a wide path around her. Not my little man. He knelt down less than a foot from her face and declared with deep conviction, "ROAR!"

The little blond was momentarily taken aback. Quickly recovering, she roared back. I didn't know where her parents were; no one was in the general vicinity. And I'm not going to be the mom that intervenes for her baby. So I let them roar it out. This went on for some time. After every growl the girl would check to see if Noah was defeated. He would scrunch up his beautiful little face and unleash an equal if not greater GRRRR. If his three-year-old mind could grasp sarcasm, I'm sure he would have pointed at his manic little sister biting the plastic bull, and uttered, "I live with that! You think a couple wussy growls are enough to scare me?"

Finally the girl wriggled out from under the slide. "I am a BIG dinosaur!" Noah declared triumphantly.

"No!" the girl said, straightening up to her full three foot height. "I'm five years old, already. I'm bigger than you." As if to prove her point, she stood very close to him and tried to tower. "I am the BIG dinosaur. I am a big FLYING dinosaur." she stated rather pompously.

Noah quirked an incredulous eyebrow (I wonder where he got that from). "You mean a pterodactyl?" he replied. It was said in a way that proves he perhaps gets sarcasm better than I thought. It was said with an attitude implying, "You mean a pterodactyl, idiot?" And then he turned back to me and ignored her. The great she-dino had succumbed.

I don't want to raise that kid, the smart one, who has to rub everyone's nose in it. I don't want to raise the brilliant jerk. I'm not raising Sheldon from the Big Bang Theory.

But in a moment of blatant parental failure, I gave the boy a high five.

She was being a punk. And it gives me a slight bit of comfort that when playground time comes, my little man won't stand for it.

...Let's just hope that high five doesn't earn him his first bloody nose.

When life gives you lemons...

Lest, based on my last post, you thought the husband infallible, we decided we'd best try the Frisbee golf thing again.

In Justin's brain it is the most logical thing in the world: you go throw a Frisbee in a basket eighteen times. Like golf, but cheap! (Actually, no. Not cheap. After driving around a park we saw several dudes playing Frisbee golf. They had a backpack: a specially designed Frisbee golf back pack with slots for all your nifty discs [like a putter, a driver, and a mid range. Someone drunk invented this sport.] And a drink holder... cause we being sweaty? In comparison, what Justin and I have been calling Frisbee golf is akin to whacking a gopher in a hole with a tree branch, and calling it golf.)

This whole issue has become rather personal for my man. He can throw anything: baseballs, boomerangs, footballs, javelins, pint-sized wife... I'd fight back if I could find some stilts and a muscle suit. We even play Frisbee in the backyard, and he does a fine job of it. However, when confronted with a basket nestled 425 feet away... this happens:

 



This may appear to  be a man stoically pondering the mysteries of the universe in a serene rural setting. But it is in fact a man searching for his Frisbee.

Ah ha! Found it!

 

What? You don't see it? It's green. That should help.

Or maybe that's the orange one... nope, I'm pretty sure the orange one was up river a few yards. This must be the green one.

Ever creative and never one to give up, my husband decided to retrieve a long stick from the middle of the river and use it to lever the Frisbee back to safety. Having no success in acquiring the long stick, the man determined to snag a longer stick in order to retrieve the long stick, in order to lever the Frisbee out.

 

The pictures don't offer his efforts fair credit. The embankment was six feet high. And his children were continually lining up in lemming fashion to jump off the edge, which distracted from the delicate rescue and recovery process.

Justin claims to be a realist, but there's some certain part of him, which wins key battles and allows optimism to peek out into the bright light of day. Life stole the Frisbees, it muddied his flip flops, cut up his baby girl on some branches, and sullied his masculine "I'll rock any sport" pride...

But God gave him a new walking stick.

The Man Makes Dinner

I should have known after all his sneakiness that something was up for our first Valentine's Day. However, I am sadly gullible. Someone should make me a gullible hat, and then a matching shirt that says, "Be nice, it's no fun, when she can't fight back."

He said we were going somewhere for a nice dinner. I went shopping for a gorgeous dress. I piled my curled hair on my head, put on make-up, donned spikey black heels, and waited with breathless anticipation (or I waited with some other bosom-heaving cliché). He showed up in a tie. That's how you know it's serious.

As we drove he said he had to pick up something from home. This is the point when those not blessed with an over active gullibility, would have raised a finger and declared triumphantly "Ah ha!" I merely smiled, refolded my fingers into knots and dug them further into my lap. At his house, Justin asked if I wanted to go in with him. Again, those cleverer type folk would have asked a snarky, "Why?" with arms folded over there chest and a knowing eyebrow quirk.

I innocently murmured, "Sure,"  and fumbled with the door handle. Thankfully, Justin is a gentleman, he showed that troublesome door handle who was boss.

He pulled open the door to his home, and ushered me in. The first thing that hit me was the scent of flowers. A lot of flowers. There were four vases of roses and baby's breath in ever imaginable color. There was a bit of an apology on his part. He hoped I wasn't disappointed that he was making dinner. He hoped I didn't feel the dress, make up, and heels were a waste.

Because I dress up for the restaurant? Silly boy.

Like an explorer in the heart of the Amazon, I parted the tangle of roses to see two  places set, candles were lit, and wine was poured. He made Cajun-spiced salmon, herbed potatoes, and grilled asparagus. It was delicious. And romantic. And amazing. And, well, whatever other positive adjectives human kind has or will invent for studly men who can cook and look great in ties.

That night was the first time we said "I love you." It was supposed to be the night of our first kiss, however, a few nights earlier, when attempting to kiss my cheek in the dark, Justin "missed." And I'll let him have his delusion because it was sufficiently fairytale.

Eight years later... I have the flu. I'm achy, and sniffling, and sore throaty, and vomity. Romantic. With yakking.

However, the man is still a stud. While I read stories to the kids he made dinner.

 

 

It is salmon with garlic orange crème sauce, herbed sweet potatoes, and grilled asparagus. And there were candles.

He made the candles this afternoon while I napped. Out of limbs he pruned off our trees.

Who does that?

Why did this man marry me?

He is still a sweet, romantic, stud. Eight years later I still mean every, "I love you," with my whole heart.

Although this romantic Valentine's dinner had a few extra guests at the table:



I traded roses for babies.
Which is cool, I guess.